In Peace, Vigilance
by devilsalt
Summary: The Commander has not been the same since her recent venture—finding Morrigan did not bring the closure she sought. But there are no shortage of distractions for the former Lady Cousland. The Wardens have begun the training of their newest member, the capital demands her royal attendance, and Nathaniel is suspicious of a knight from Starkhaven. Where's the peace and quiet?
1. Homecoming

**Authors Note: Originally this was suppose to be a sequel to The Warden's Rose, but since I intend to cover all the wardens life, I just had to get this started. More of Awakening's wardens will be introduced in the next chapter. Enjoy!**

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><p><strong><em>HOMECOMING<em>**

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><p>"Wake-up lad, we've arrived in Amaranthine."<p>

Carver let out an exhausted sigh. His body ached, he was hungry, and the taste of darkspawn blood had yet to leave his tongue. The younger Hawke should have been happy to be free of his brother's shadow and to finally be home in Ferelden, but he wasn't. If he hadn't followed his brother into the Deep Roads, Carver wouldn't be where he is now, miserable in the cabin of a ship heading to port and a Grey Warden. He still felt nauseous from the Joining. In the end, however, he owed the Wardens his life. That was three times now that he should have been dead.

The Warden-Lieutenant, Stroud, lingered a moment longer, "Once we dock, we will ride to Vigil's Keep. There awaits warm beds and hot meals."

"You had me at hot meal," Carver jested, stumbling to his feet, and hitting a wall just as the ship jerked to a halt.

Stroud laughed and patted the rookie Warden on the shoulder, "See you up top."

His empty stomach growled as he stretched his stiff limbs. Since the Joining, Carver hadn't kept anything down except for cold stew broth and water. Then again, he wasn't exactly hungry after downing a cup of darkspawn blood, but two weeks at sea had suddenly changed that. Now, Carver was starving and could eat a horse; confirmed by another loud growl from behind his belt. Groaning, he followed the path Stroud took to the deck and welcomed the fresh sea air.

The docks were bustling and loud, fishermen running up and down the docks as more ships lined up to to take anchor. It was nearly sunset, with the horizon red and sea behind him calm. Stroud was watching on as the gangplank was lowered, barking directions in his hefty Orlesian accent to the two other wardens with him. Carver stalked across the deck, foot asleep, something foreign rattling around his neck. The Ferelden native fingered the amulet, noticing the deep red fluid float back and fourth in a tiny vial.

"Darkspawn blood," came Stroud's gruff tenor, catching Carver off guard. The lieutenant reached beneath his royal blue collar and yanked free a matching vial, holding it to the fading sunlight. The tiny glass container was stained black, nothing sloshing back and fourth anymore. "Warden's Oath—we are all given one when we survive the Joining." Stroud tucked it back into his shirt and gave Carver a faint smile that was hidden behind his dashing mustache, "It is a reminder of the brothers and sisters we loose to the taint." The Orlesian warden stomped down the gangplank, nodding at the fishermen passing by and hurrying home to their families. "Oh—" he turned on his heel and looked up at Carver, still grinning, "I understand you're originally from Lothering?" The young Hawke nodded. "Welcome back," Stroud said and headed down the dock towards the mainland.

Carver quickly followed in suit, matching Stroud's pace. "Anders is a warden, why didn't he have one of these?" He was still examining the amulet, curious.

Stroud scoffed and stopped, "_Was_ a warden." He continued moving into the city, huffing and cursing, "That mage has been nothing but trouble for the Commander, ever since he and that spirit—" They side stepped around a gathering of locals and continued shaking his head, "but you know all about his _condition._"

"You knew him before he and that thing—" Carver started, interest peaked as they were breezing through Amaranthine.

"Me? No, but the Commander did," the lieutenant answered, "according to her, he wasn't always out for templar blood. He even told jokes. Unfortunately, when that spirit's body died, Anders offered himself up, and, well, you know the rest."

Amaranthine was glittering around them. The setting sun reflected from one window to another, complimenting a city that was at the end of healing. Walls and businesses had been rebuilt since the attacks, families returned to their homes, and the farmers had flourishing fields again. Carver wondered if Lothering was back on its feet yet, if the windmill still stood, if that qunari was still caged. More importantly—if their home was still standing. They had left in such a hurry, he wasn't able to collect any personal valuables before they fled. He wouldn't truly be home until he stepped foot in Lothering.

They continued through the city, the locals happily greeting the wardens as they passed through. Stroud was happy to oblige to the praise, smoothing his mustache as they passed a gathering of ladies. He turned to see Carver's confusion, his hesitant nod and wave at those that greeted them. "Just over a years ago," Stroud started, just as they were walking under the front guard towers. "After the Blight, there was still a pocket of darkspawn attacking the countryside. The Commander had just taken control over the arling of Amaranthine and these lingering darkspawn were smarter than the ones in the Blight." The walked through the city's front gate, aligned with street markets and had a recently paved road, with unleveled stones. The other two wardens were waiting with horses, handing the reigns of a black steed to Stroud. "When they finally attacked the city, she choice to save the city over Vigil's Keep—where the wardens were stationed, we nearly lost the Keep," the lieutenant passed along another pair of reigns to Carver. "Since then, the city has great respect for the Commander and the wardens. And soon enough," Stroud paused, "she will have yours."

The wardens took to their mounts and headed south from Amaranthine. By then, the sun had sunken beyond the horizon and was replaced by the moon. Clouds were rolling in from the sea, thick and black. Stroud took notice to the approaching storm and had them riding harder to Vigil's Keep. Carver felt the wind on his face, that familiar stink of dirt and dogs. He forgot how much he missed the grass and mud of Fereldan, nothing compared to the smoke and metal of Kirkwall. Whether they got the estate back or not, the Free Marches would never be home. For the first time, Carver felt himself smile, even as the rain started to come down and the road ahead grew dark. _This_ felt like home.

Stroud had them following a lit path before the complete darkness had settled in. Ahead was Vigil's Keep, greeting them with a flood of light. There was a fire in all the windows, smoke from a larger pit of flames just behind a heavy gate. Two guards let them in, not minding the abrupt downpour. A grand bonfire in the center of the courtyard was slowing going out, men and women going to and fro as they sought shelter. Someone took their horses as they dismounted, Carver being dragged towards the partially opened doors into the Keep. Which was fine, he couldn't see much in the dark anyways.

The main hall was empty, save for piles of wood and stone. Renovations were being made, but it was apparent the workers had retired for the night. Carver was ringing out his shirt and running a hand back through his dark hair when he heard loud commotion through an open door down the hall. Stroud sent the other two wardens away and came up to the newest member, heavy arm swung over his shoulders. "Welcome to Vigil's Keep lad," he slapped Carver on the shoulder, "good luck."

As they approached the open door where the clinking of forks and drunken merriment was ringing through the hallway, a man met them at the doorway. He was tall and his hair cut short, but it was the tattoo on his face that stood out. "Ah Draco!" Stroud exclaimed, greeting the other man as an equal.

"Stroud." The man was not as enthused, but his voice was familiar—the accent at least.

"Taking the new recruit to the Commander," the Orlesian warden answered.

"The Commander hasn't returned." Draco eyed Carver, not impressed—his accent still annoyingly familiar—then disappeared back into the mess hall.

Carver noticed Stroud's demeanor falter for a moment, his worrying masked by another cheerful smile. "Let's eat!"

The mess hall was loud and full of food. Two long tables centered the room, both full of men and women, dwarves and elves, all enjoying a festivity of drinks and boar. Nothing smelled more heavenly. Carver followed behind Stroud, watching as he filled a flagon of ale and made a toast with a red-headed dwarf. He noticed the tattooed man again—Draco—sitting alone in the corner, observing the dining of others. The novice wondered if he was somehow important, perhaps higher in rank like Stroud was. However, before he could continue to ponder, a battle-axe was suddenly blocking his path.

It was the red-headed dwarf, with a beard full of crumbs and grease, narrowing his drunken gaze at Carver. He belched. "I smell a baby warden," he grunted, not moving his weapon. Carver wasn't sure how to react or what to say, he simply stood there hoping Stroud would spring into action. Instead, it was the other dwarf beside him.

"Leave him alone Oghren—" she punched him in the shoulder and rolled her eyes. "Sorry, he's only a little more easy to tolerate when he's sober so get use to it now," she explained for the dwarf. She had tattoos on the whole of her face, similar to some of the dwarves he travelled with into the Deep Roads. "I'm Sigrun, this unfortunately is Oghren."

Oghren scoffed and muttered under his breath as he finished his drink, pointing at his eyes and then back at Carver.

Sigrun elbowed him this time, "Just ignore him, like we all do. Hey—hey Myrah! Bring a drink to the novice here!"

Carver followed the dwarf's line of sight and met large forest green eyes. She was skinny and barefooted, long pointed ears poking through a dark mane. Her smile was bright, but shy as she approached the table. Myrah handed Carver a tall flagon of ale, "I wasn't aware the Commander was recruiting." Her mannerism was similar, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"She's not," Sigrun piped in, "he came in with Stroud."

The armed dwarf finished his drink and poked Carver with a fork, "What made you so special baby warden?"

The 'baby warden' opened his mouth to answer, but a commotion stopped him, and a loud voice.

"Commander."

The loud conversations fell into a low rumble, all the attention was drawn towards the open doorway. Carver watched as Oghren lifted his drink in greeting and the girls nodded. He turned, feeling hesitant as the festive mood matched the woman's in the doorway. She was soaked to the bone, dripping still, with dark hair slicked against her cheeks and neck. It was hard to make any clear details in the dark, but Carver recognized the look of contemplation on her furrowed brows. The Commander scanned the room, taking a few cautious steps through the doorway as she pulled soaked leather gloves from her hands. She stopped where the ale and wine was out, oblivious to the attention she had gathered. Carver watched as she grabbed a full bottle of wine, pried the cork top free with her teeth and spat it to the ground. Then she disappeared back through the doorway. Dropped conversations immediately resumed as if she had never been there.

"Great..." Oghren groaned, taking Carver's drink and finishing it for him. He waved a finger at Carver, "Better enjoy tonight baby warden, cause tomorrow we face the ten foot tall beast with lightning bolts shooting out of the eyes."

The drunken dwarf left the table in search of more ale, ignoring the terror he left in Carver's face. "The what?"

"In other words," Sigrun sighed and tapped her drink with Myrah's, "The Commander in a bad mood."


	2. The Commander

**Authors Note: I just want to thank all the followers this story has gotten in the last four days, I was honestly surprised anyone beside myself would be interested in this story. Which is why this chapter was written up quicker than I had planned, and I am already working on the next. I may come back and tweak the chapter a bit, but I will let readers know in the next chapter if any changes were made. Otherwise, please enjoy and the next chapter will be up soon.**

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><p><strong><em>THE COMMANDER<em>**

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><p>Draco watched the Commander leave the room, very aware of her unusual behavior. She hadn't even brought a glass to go with the bottle of wine. He looked for the Warden-Constable—Nathaniel Howe—but quickly realized the former noble had already left for his chambers. The warden tried to shoulder his curiosity and masquerade his worrying behind a flagon, however, there was no fooling the Orlesian. Stroud had wandered to Draco's corner, eyes still watching the empty doorway, twisting the end of his mustache. He waited for Stroud to say something—like he always did—to have Draco do exactly what he wanted him to do. The Orlesian grinned faintly, knowing his presence was being ignored.<p>

"Whose the kid?" Draco inquired, moving the focus to the new warden awkwardly sitting with the dwarves.

Stroud smirked, "Acquaintance of an old friend." The warden noticed Draco's disinterest and continued to rattle on. "Found him in the Deep Roads, already touched with the taint, but he survived. You're gonna have fun with this one..."

Draco's curiosity faltered to the novice, "And whys that?"

"Some sob story about being in his brother's shadow," the prim warden answered.

"My favorite," he groaned. Stroud saw the disgruntled Draco fidget from the corner of his eye. He finished his drink and growled a sigh, giving Stroud a knowing glare before stomping through the hall.

He stepped into the main room where some of the guards were sharing jokes, hushing as Draco passed them to get to the stairway. The Commander had been absent for a while, running off to the Korcari Wilds with little warning. She only sent word a week ago, with details of her return. Naturally, all the wardens had their own theories—the worst being that her Calling had arrived. The wiser wardens knew better. Before she was the Commander, she was one of two surviving lone wardens from Ostagar, and before that, she was a noble of Highever. There was a number of potential reasons why she had disappeared from her duties.

Draco followed the hallway to her office, rapping a fist against the door. "Commander?" he called to her. He heard the heavy thump of the bottle of wine she had taken with her. She didn't give him an answer, but he decided to go in anyways.

The Commander stood at her window staring into the dark beyond. It was still storming and the rain pattered loudly against the glass, lightning illuminating the room as he shut the door behind him. Her dark hair was still tucked into the cloak she had yet to remove, dripping a puddle on the floor. Her eyes were shadowed by tired circles, face red from the wind—or the wine. He noticed the bottle was down to the last drop. Draco cleared his throat and stood observant by the door, "I do not mean to pry Commander, but is everything—"

She didn't even let him finish.

"He's fine," she smirked, a fake pained smile on her scarred lips as she turned towards her warrior.

"Pardon Commander?" Draco inquired.

She turned back to the window, "The child."

Draco waited to respond, hearing the tremble in her voice. "Child commander—"

Suddenly the empty bottle was flying across the chamber, shattering against a shelf of books. "The child I forced my husband to have with a woman he hated!" she huffed, body rigid and thoughts intoxicated. "_That_ child."

He stilled, surprised. Few wardens knew exactly how she survived slaying the archdemon. Draco was one of the trusted few. He was aware of the 'Witch of the Wilds' and the ritual performed—the promise the Commander made never to seek out her former companion. Yet she did so anyways. It was all very clear now. She followed the rumors that had spawned the last few months. Disappearing before anyone could stop her. The Commander obviously was looking for answers, or closure, but from the way she swayed angrily at her desk, that was not what she got.

She slinked back to the window and pressed her cheek against the cool glass. "He has a son," the Commander whispered, careful not to let her voice tremble.

"Commander," Draco stepped to her desk, "perhaps it's time you return to Denerim for a while. Or maybe Highever, I'm aware your brother has made great progress on rebuilding—"

"No. I can't," she started, beginning to pace with her arms crossed tightly, "the Vigil is still being rebuilt—Voldrik is going to need materials—"

"Commander—"

"...the city is finally flourishing—and my recent venture has kept me away long enough..." She was rambling, something she did when she was nervous and upset. He's known her long enough to know she was delaying the inevitable.

"Vesper!" he called her by name, silencing her.

Draco walked around the desk and stood over her. She smelled of wine and woods as he breathed her in, brushing wet hair away from her face with one hand. He brushed the familiar scar on her eyebrow with his thumb and felt her step away. "As your oldest friend," the warden stepped away too, turning to collect the broken bottle as he spoke. "I think you need to speak with your husband about this."

She shook her head, "I promised him I wouldn't go after her."

"But you did anyways," he snapped back, voice emotionless as usual. He picked the large pieces of the bottle up from the ground and pulled a rug over the rest, mentally reminding himself to get a maid to clean the mess in the morning. "Doesn't the King deserve to know his child is safe?"

The glare that followed would have had any man cowering, recanting their offense, but Draco would not. He knew Vesper when she was merely a young noble coming of age. She had his loyalty then and had it still, but since joining the wardens, Draco was both friend and foe now. The Commander was not always happy with his advice, like now—even if he was right. She was moments from reminding Draco of her authority, beyond the wardens, but a knock interrupted the tense moment.

Stroud poked his head through the doorway, took notice to the Commander's angry glower, and pushed the door wider anyways. He was followed by the new recruit—Carver. Vesper hid her surprise, instead giving the new warden a once over. He was tall, almost a match in stature to Draco, with dark hair and a young face. Clearly nervous by the way he avoided looking her in the eye and respectively keeping his distance. Meanwhile, the Orlesian warden noticed the shards of glass in Draco's hand and Vesper's lingering glare. "A new recruit Commander," Stroud announced nonchalantly and casually pushed Draco out of the way. "Found him in the Deep Roads," he added, standing between the Commander and Draco.

Taking the hint, Draco left the room. Carver watched him vanish into the dark hallway, curious of what he might have missed.

"Your name?" he heard her ask, voice surprisingly calm despite the terrifying glare still on her face.

"Carver—Carver Hawke," he stuttered as his stomach growled again.

The Commander's demeanor changed and she moved towards the scattered piles of parchment on her desk, looking up at Carver between pages. "Hawke, that sounds familiar..." she suggested.

Carver wondered when this would happen, "My brother..."

"No—" she intervened, now handing piles of papers to Stroud, "I've only heard the name once." The Commander was going through her hand of parchments, pausing as she traced words with her finger, suddenly paling. She met Carver's gaze, her glare gone but replaced with something more haunted. He watched as she handed the page to Stroud, whose face lit in surprise. "You were a soldier in Ostagar," the Commander finally said, eyes narrowed again. "This is a list of all the bodies never accounted for," she slipped past Stroud before he could stop her, stepping up to Carver. "Your name is on there."

The new warden wasn't sure how to respond, whether the Commander saw him a coward or a survivor. "I was ma'am," he stuttered. Her stare never changed, even as she walked away and back to the window. "I saw what Loghain did to the Wardens—" Carver piped up, feeling the need to explain his absence from the battlefield. "We were being slaughtered, I—I had to get my family away from the horde. I couldn't abandon them to the same fate as the men in Ostagar." The young Hawke felt Stroud grab his arm and shake his head, stopping him.

He saw the Commander's fist fidget. Stroud cleared his throat, "I'll show him to his chamber Commander, please get a good night of sleep."

The lieutenant was dragging Carver from the room, but not before he saw the Commander collapse into her chair, face buried into the palms of her hands. Had he said something wrong? Noticing the novice was still distracted, Stroud squeezed his arm. Carver winced, but complied. "Was she at Ostagar?" he curiously inquired, assuming she may have come from Orlais as well.

"Was she at Ostagar..." Stroud annoyingly mocked, quickening his pace as they headed back down the stairway and across the main room through another doorway.

Carver was lead down beneath the Keep, where it was cold and wet from the rain. He walked past closed doors where he could hear snoring and movement. They passed a large chamber with tables, one occupied by a group of wardens playing cards, all taking notice of Stroud and his ward. "Listen little Hawke—" Stroud started as they neared the end of a hallway.

"Don't call me that—" Carver felt the collar of his shirt tighten around his neck, the cold stone of the wall against his back.

Stroud had him against the wall, not angry but frustrated. "Listen _Carver_," he rephrased, pushing him into the open doorway beside them. "The Commander isn't just any woman, she is the Hero of Ferelden. She rallied together armies across the land and slayed the archdemon, thus ending the Blight. Next time you see her, I expect you to mind your manners," the lieutenant's voice carried, silencing the game of cards down the hall. Stroud sighed and helped Carver back to his feet, "Like I told you before, there is a lot of respect for the Commander and we don't like seeing her upset."

"I didn't mean—" Stroud held his hand up and a shadow of a smile slipped beneath his large mustache.

"I know lad," he simply said, patting Carver on the shoulder and then left.

Carver turned and slunk to the bed, sinking into the uncomfortable bedding. His stomach growled again, but he wasn't sure if he dared crossing paths with the drunk elf again; or the fellow with a tattoo on his face. He pondered what Stroud noticed that he didn't when they went into the Commander's office, but decided it was probably for the best he didn't know. A sigh crept out as he thought about Mother and how she would react to the news of him becoming a warden. After loosing Bethany, he assumed she wouldn't receive it very well. Mother was strong though, and she still had Garrett. Carver then wondered how much longer his brother could avoid the templars, even with his growing presence in Kirkwall. There was always something about the templars there that rubbed him the wrong way.

Hunger, however, stopped his thoughts there and the young warden thought about asking the wardens playing cards if they had anything to eat.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the open door and a plate of food met Carver's growling stomach. Behind the food was the elf from earlier, carrying a pitcher of drink in her free hand. She smiled kindly and passed him to put the meal down at a table in the corner. "I figured you would still be hungry after Stroud dragged you from the feast," she spoke, a faint familiarity in her enunciations. "I remember the appetite I had after going through the Joining, I think I ate a whole herd of halla before the cravings subsided..." she spun to face Carver, her name still not coming to him, "Of course, one couldn't possibly eat an entire herd of halla—and I'm rambling." He immediately thought of Merrill. He would miss her.

"Myrah..." he suddenly remembered, relieved when she nodded happily.

"Well, Ser Carver, I'll let you eat. Unfortunately Oghren wasn't joking about how tough tomorrow's tasks will be," she replied, as she quietly walked past him again, "Sleep well."

She disappeared before he could say anything more. Carver placed his full attention on the hefty plate she brought him, towered in meat and potatoes and cheese. He ate it all quickly, no time to savor how more favorable the food was then the food in the mess hall; or that there wasn't cheese served at the dinner he attended earlier.


	3. The Warden-Constable

**Author`s Note: I actually had about 90% of this chapter written, but forgot to refresh the document so it ended up getting deleted. Which ended up for the better, I like this version a lot better. Hoping to become a lot for active with this series, so hopefully an update will be much, much sooner than how long this took. **

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><p><em><strong>THE WARDEN-CONSTABLE<strong>_

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><p>Training—and rather loudly—had already began outside as Nathaniel Howe rouse from sleep. To his right was the bare back and curves of his companion, still sleeping soundly at an arm's length. The Warden-Constable inhaled the crisp morning air, listening to the clatter and clashing of blades and tools just beyond his open window. He instantly knew the Commander had returned. Stretching only the faintest, Nathaniel ran his finger tips along the spine of the beauty in his bed. She moaned sluggishly awake and turned on her side to face him, smiling. "My lady," the warden whispered as her face was illuminated by the morning sun, her vallaslin faint across her palid skin.<p>

"Ma vhenan," she cooed back quietly and tucked herself against his side.

He kissed her forehead to keep her awake, but only encouraged other means of arousal. In a moment she had forced his lips against hers. Nathaniel willingly obliged, encircling her waist and drawing her naked body nearer. He covered her body with his and brushed strands of flaxen hair behind her pointed ear. His lover eagerly ran her fingers delicately along his back and tilted her head back as his mouth touched her throat.

Nathaniel was more than willing to indulge in a long morning of carnal behavior, but a heavy knock at the couple's door swiftly brought the moment to an end. His lover managed to tangle herself in the quilt just as Strode paraded into the room, completely oblivious to the naked elf at first. "Good morning Howe—" he froze and averted his gaze politely to the floor, "And a good morning to you too Lady Velanna." She scoffed in elvish and leaned over to kiss Nathaniel one last time, whispering naughtily into his ear before slipping past Strode in nothing but the quilt wrapped around herself.

"This better have been good," Nathaniel warned, reaching at the stone floor for his pants.

"It concerns the Commander ser," Strode responded in his Orlesian accent, mindful of his wording.

The Warden-Constable fastened his belt and stood to make proper conversation with his fellow warden. "That explains the commotion outside. I assume she is back?" He watched as Strode nodded. "Alright, what's the fuss then?"

Strode smirked knowingly, which annoyed Nathaniel. He stepped away from the door and allowed one of the servants to enter the room with a small cart. The wardens met each others gaze. The cart was swarmed with empty vessels once filled to the brim of wine or mead, now bone dry. Nathaniel sat back down on the edge of his bed and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was no need for further explanation. The Commander was weak to a drink every now and then, like most people, but would guzzle it down when she was troubled and avoiding something inevitable. "When did she get back?"

"Late last night, Draco had gone to check on her, but I don't think he got that far," Stroud answered, leaning against the nearest wall, allowing passage for the servant to retreat back to the kitchen.

"It looks like she's trying to avoid a trip to the capital," Nathaniel surmised with an exaggerated sigh, "How long has it been?"

"Too long," Stroud answered.

The Warden-Constable dressed quickly into his proper attire and sought out the Commander, almost sure where he might find her. He walked through Vigil's Keep, workers and solders alike busy carrying on repairs. It would be a long time before his former holding would return to its full glory, but the help of Amaranthine's people was bringing them closer. Nathaniel stopped by the mess hall on his way to the courtyard, where he found Velanna and Myrah laughing over some morning mead. He quickly give her a kiss to the forehead and tucked the pieces of her clothing she had left behind in his room. She held his hand as he walked away, until their fingers barely clung to one another.

Outside was where all the noise of this morning had come from. Voldrik had just acquired a new quarry and men were returning with new slabs of granite, others were breaking it apart with their hammers and chisels. The dwarf saw Nathaniel and made a gesture over his shoulder with his thumb. The warden followed his direction to a secluded part of the courtyard that was rather quiet and vacant, save for a group of men watching anxiously from the sidelines of the archery range. Draco was there too, sitting behind the current archer on a fallen tree they had turned into a bench long ago. He sat observant, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. The familiar thunk of arrow sinking into its target met Nathaniel's ears as he approached his fellow warden.

"How long has she been out here?" he inquired, taking notice to all the broken arrows piled beside Draco.

The other man looked up from his work, glancing up at the sun, "I think she's been at it all night. I don't think she's had a wink of sleep since coming back from the Wilds."

Nathaniel passed Draco and approached the Commander.

She was stringing her next arrow—a dozen already embedded into the red circle of her target—drawing her arm back with a gracefulness taught from birth to those of noble blood. He had always admired her determination to master new battle arms, and he jumped at the chance to help his Commander perfect the art of archery. Little did he know she only needed about a week—he later learn her mother was quite skilled with a bow herself. As she learned more tactics, the Commander expected no less from her wardens and often trained them to the bones.

"Commander—" he cautiously approached, catching her off-guard. The Commander's grip twitched and the arrow was sent sailing way beyond its intended target. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Vesper turned to her trusted companion, dark circles under her eyes. "We are not discussing that," she spoke harshly and stepped over to the table she had aligned arrows on.

"Fair enough," he answered, knowing that was how she would respond. "Then let us talk about something else."

"And what is that?" the dark haired warden called back to him, refocusing on her target.

"I think its overdue for a trip to Denerim, don't you?"

Another arrow went sailing over the the target.

"We are not having that conversation either."

"If I may?" Draco decided to formally join the conversation.

Nathaniel had anticipated the warden's intervention—he had a way in swaying the Commander when others failed. He still did not know much about Draco, just that he hails from Starkhaven and was associated with the royal family there, but at some point had come across the sea seeking out the wardens. There was some unknown familiarity and understanding between the foreigner and Vesper, a history that went back several years before she was even recruited. A history Nathaniel kept clear of. Draco embodied what the wardens expected from their men and women, but his loyalty was to Vesper and Vesper alone—he only braved the Joining so he could serve at her side.

Draco casually placed his sword and whetstone aside, towering over his fellow wardens as he walked up to them. "My lady," he said, voice heavy with admiration for the woman. "It has been nearly two moons since you last saw your husband. Perhaps the Warden-Constable is fair in saying it has been a time since you returned to the capital." Nathaniel watched curiously for the flicker of change in her face. "The King must miss the affections of his queen," Draco went on to say, catching their Commander off guard.

Vesper did not respond at first. She stood silent and pensive as she looked in the direction of Denerim. What would she say to _him?_ The Commander handed her bow to her second and glanced between the two men. "While I appreciate your intentions Nathaniel, _I_ decide when my presence is needed in Denerim and there is still too much to be done here." She sauntered off, still deep in thought as she distanced herself from her subordinates.

"Don't worry Ser," Draco addressed his better, "she will listen to you."

"What makes you so sure?" Nathaniel asked surprised, sure he had been defeated.

The knight smiled knowingly and began to gather his effects to follow her back into Vigil's Keep. "I have known Lady Cousland for many years—her diligence has not changed. Encourage her some more and you can persuade her. She is still upset from her travels at the moment, but I think she will be leaving soon for Denerim."

Nathaniel remained where he was and asked Draco what had long been on his mind. "What really made you seek out the Grey Wardens?"

Draco's chivalrous charm vacated from his face, recognizing the suspicion in Nathaniel's tenor. "A debt," he answered forwardly, trying to bring an end to the conversation.

"A debt?" the Warden-Constable doubted.

The Starkhaven native smiled sadly, "A debt to my lady Cousland that can never be repaid." He properly replaced his sword into the leather scabbard at his hip and glanced in the direction Vesper had left in. "If we are done—" Draco started, hesitating for any lingering words his superior might have. Nathaniel reluctantly nodded, his confidence in the knight still teetering. "I will be in the keep should you need me," he finished and eagerly followed the steps of the commander.

Draco's answer did little to sway Nathaniel's distrust in him and the warden began to ponder on this _debt_. When exactly did a knight from Starkhaven become associated to a young noble woman in Highever? He decided not to bother feeding his suspicion. Trust was very important to the Commander, and she had allowed Draco stay play squire at her side as soon as he survived the Joining. If she was willing to put so much faith in this man, Nathaniel needed to let his qualms pass. He distracted himself from the situation by giving orders to the wardens that had been standing by gawking at the Commander. Telling them to reset the range and fetch the two stray arrows.

He ended up spending most of his day on the range, training the wardens and taking a few shots for himself. It wasn't until the sky had become dusky that he sent them to the keep for supper, staying behind to clean up before heading to the mess hall himself. Upon entering the room—already rowdy and loud—Nathaniel was surprised to see Vesper knocking flagons with Oghren. She was smiling and cheering with the dwarf, a contrast to how she was carrying herself earlier in the day. It was a relief really. He made his way towards her intending to speak with her privately again, but she saw him coming and had beat him to it.

"Finally," she exasperated and stood eagerly, "Nathaniel, a word please?"

"Of course," he answered relieved. Vesper smiled and lead him from the hall where they could speak without shouting. They ended up walking outside.

She inhaled the night air, turning to her companion. "Perhaps you are right," Vesper admitted with a sigh, "I've been away for too long." The Commander looked to the sky, "I'm leaving you in charge while I'm gone—shouldn't be too long. I've asked Stroud to stick around a little longer before he returns to Orlais, help him with the new warden."

"New warden? I wasn't aware—"

"Neither was I until he just showed up with him," she laughed to herself, "I think Oghren has already gone and filled the kid's head with stories, so I would appreciate it if you'll keep an eye on him until I return."

Nathaniel nodded. "Vesper," he called to her, formalities gone. "You found her didn't you, this friend of yours?" She didn't have to answer, the weary grin on her face was guilty enough. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but if you ever did, I'll lend you my ears," he went on to say, touching her shoulder.

"You are a true friend Nate, perhaps I will take you up on that offer when I return," Vesper thanked, "but now I must head for Denerim, if I don't go now, I probably won't go at all."

"What changed your mind?" Nathaniel asked curiously.

Vesper froze and smiled, "Strode mentioned walking in on you and Velanna this morning. Made me realize just how much I miss my husband and I want nothing more than to wake up in his arm tomorrow."


	4. The King

**Author`s Note: As much as I love my Amell, I forgot how much I love my Cousland with her Alistair. I actually had this chapter written out for something completely different, but thought it would go well here. A continuation of the royal couple in the next chapter.**

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><p><em><strong>THE KING<strong>_

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><p>It was raining in Denerim. A cold and wet rain that seized the capital overnight, leaving the sky gray and grumbling. Alistair was in his office watching the gloomy weather, forehead pressed against the cool glass of his window. He had a grand view of the courtyard and the city beyond that, but nothing he saw would cheer up the King. There were guards marching through the mud and servants returning from the market with his favorite cheeses, but alas, he longed for only a single person to come walking through the gate. He sighed loudly, one after another, receiving an equally sad whine from Dog. The mabari was perched loyalty at his side, nose pressed too against the window. Alistair reached to pet him for comfort.<p>

A hard knock came from the door and the former warden turned to accept his guest, and happily so. The Teryn of Highever stood at the doorway, shoulders wet from the rain and carrying a large ornate chest. "Alistair," he greeted with a broad grin. Fergus Cousland was one of the few to address the King so casually. Alistair quite enjoyed it and often encouraged it, in spite of his uncle's advice against it. After the blight, the Teryn reclaimed Highever from what remained of Arl Howe's influence over the land. It was a quick effort, thanks to Alistair's support, and Highever Castle soon began rebuilding.

It had been sometime since he had received a visit from Fergus, who was slightly gimp in the leg from the war and greying just a bit in the hairline. He walked up to Alistair's antique desk, his limp heavier from the frigid weather, and hefted the chest he held onto an empty chair. Upon a closer look, the King noticed the box was charred at the corners and some of the metal was rusted. Fergus jetted a hand at him, and he returned a hearty handshake. "Always a pleasure," Alistair smiled and curiously looked at the unlocked strongbox.

Fergus gestured with his hand for his King to investigate. "Amazing really," he exclaimed as the lid was lifted and the chest's contents revealed. "The entire castle was nearly burnt or rubble, but my sister's chest is amongst the few things to survive."

Alistair was expecting some finery or jewels from his wife's younger days, some armor more likely, but was instead amazed by the number of leather bound journals. They were carefully organized, years scratched into their spines. "My sister's collection of journals," Fergus answered the quizzical look on his in-law's face. "I figured she might like a piece of home, something to remind her of the better days," he spoke with less fervor as he spoke the latter. "I don't suppose my dear sister is around?"

"No," Alistair sighed loudly, shoulder's hanging as he turned back to the window. "She had business that would keep her away for a while," his voice went quiet. He had not heard from her in some time and it worried him.

The Teryn placed his hand on Alistair's shoulder, "Don't you worry about her my brother." It was comforting to have Fergus as a part of his family, even if the approval from his wife's brother took a while to earn. "If she can slay an archdemon, I reckon whatever quest she's at won't keep her away for much longer," he continued, giving the King a friendly pat. "Besides," he smirked through a full beard, "It's the time apart that makes for a wonderful night in bed."

A blush as scarlet as the reddest drakestone came to Alistair's face, catching the poor man by surprise. Fergus chuckled loudly at his in-law's reaction, throwing his head back. The King was hiding his face, feeling the heat in his cheeks, embarrassed by the crude humor—it didn't matter that Fergus was right. When his love did return after some time had passed, they usually never left the bedchamber except to sneak food from the larder to refuel. Thinking about it made him red all over again. The Teryn continued his throaty laugh, only stopping when a gentle knock came to the door.

"Yes—Ah, come in," Alistair muttered.

A young woman stepped into the room and bowed to the King, only able to bend the slightest. She had a hand on her stomach, swollen from gravidity. "Your Majesty," she spoke softly, "Is my dear husband up to his antics again?" Fiona Cousland floated to her husband with grace and swept into his arm. It had taken years before Fergus had found love again. After the siege on his home had taken the lives of his wife and child, the elder Cousland had never intended to look at a woman again. The pain had been unbearable. However, a visit to Starkhaven had changed that entirely. One dance with the beauty and Fergus was forever smitten. The couple had married last spring and were now expecting their first child.

"No less than usual," the King replied, smiling at the happy couple. Fergus rubbed his wife's stomach, feeling for a sign of life from his future heir. Alistair nervously averted his gaze. "Are you due soon Lady Cousland?" he inquired curiously.

"I do hope so," she spoke cheerfully in her foreign lit, touching Fergus's hand, "I am eager to have him—or her—soon."

Fergus's face suddenly lit up, "Did you feel that?" Fiona's head bobbed up and down. The Teryn kissed his wife on the cheek, "I will be glad to be a father again. It is no greater gift than to bring a life into the world."

Alistair tried to keep the smile on his face, but it was hard. He could have anything he wanted: the finest clothing, as much gold he desired, the fanciest and smelliest cheeses, but fatherhood was out of reach. Fatherhood he desired very much. And a great father he promised to be, not absent or loveless. True, he never had a chance to really know Maric, but the abandonment still left its scars. Alistair felt a warm hand on his face and looked up, Fiona smiling gently up at her King. "Do not fret, you and the Queen will one day be blessed too," she said comfortingly.

"Of course," Fergus agreed, "When my dear sister does return, lock the door and answer to no one—you are the King." Alistair went red again, and Fergus was laughing too.

Fiona was the only voice of reason in the room. "We best be on our way dear husband if we hope to return to Highever tonight," she said, saving Alistair from further jesting. Lady Cousland patted her husband on the arm and bowed to the King, quietly making her way back into the hallway.

Fergus turned to bow to Alistair, a moment of formality, "A shame my little sister was not home, but perhaps we'll make a longer trip soon." The Teryn of Highever began to follow his wife out the doorway, turning to wave a final farewell to his friend before closing the door behind him.

Alistair listened as their matched footsteps carried into the distance, until finally, they could no longer be heard. The return to solitude reminded the King why he had been staring out the window earlier, but with some things to ponder now, he sat at his desk. Dog got up from the window and laid at his master's feet, head resting on his foot. There was a scatter of letters on his desk, from one bannorn to another, but his attention returned more than once to the scathed chest opposite of him.

Alistair had every intention to leave the chest be and summon someone to whisk it away to his love's private library, but as he went to continue reading through his letters, a particularly different journal caught his eye. Bound in a sapphire blue cloth and embellished in jewels, the journal was obviously a well thought out gift of some sort and hadn't been bought at a common market like the rest. It was then that the King realized he really didn't know that much about his wife's childhood, or the young woman she was before the Blight. Of course he had never asked, but not because he wasn't curious. After all she had endured, with the massacre of her entire castle, it felt rude to remind her of her former happy life as a Teryn's daughter.

It was that very journal that Alistair plucked from the chest first, very aware just how private the contents may be, but the curious King briefly considered the consequences and decided to take the risk. He immediately recognized the familiar penmanship that belonged to his Queen, slightly slanted and always elegant. He felt a pang of guilt as he prepared himself to read the first page, but the King quickly swallowed down his guiltiness and followed her writing across the page. Just as soon as he got a few words in, the door opened after a short knock.

"Alistair," his uncle, Eamon, came into his office. He had only a moment to stash the journal away in a drawer before the Arl was upon him. "I'm afraid there is some business you must attend to," the graying man announced, not phased by his nephews suspicious behavior.

"Uh—right," Alistair stood and followed his uncle out.

He spent the next couple of hours at his throne, listening to the complaints and requests of his people. Alistair was a fair and just King, beloved by them. He had studied the art of governance when he assumed the throne, but the King would not have gone too far without the aid of his uncle and the never ending support of his wife. The couple were idolized by the country, especially during their outings and tours of Ferelden. _If she was only here now_. They enjoyed listening to the people together, often whispering sweet nothings to one another between the voices that had come to be heard. Thinking about it had left a silly smile on the King's face for the rest of the task.

By the time the last request was heard, Alistair had missed supper and was eager to get back to the blue journal. He snuck away before his uncle could swoop in with other business, and returned to his office. The King reached into his drawer and retrieved what he had come in for, oblivious to the ox bone Dog had suddenly required. Alistair decided to read in bed, perhaps the only chamber his uncle would not come to bother him in. He strutted down the hallway, nodding at the servants he passed, and nearly running into the very man he was avoiding.

Alistair was humming when he entered the royal bedchamber, feeling rebellious for daring to read his wife's journal. A proud grin was plastered across his handsome features, only to be replaced with a perplexed frown as he closed the door. He was standing in a puddle at his doorway. The King instinctively switched into warden mode. He dropped the journal at a small table and pulled a shield mounted on his wall down, carefully turning the corner. Alistair was no stranger to assassination attempts, and only once was an assassin willing to become his friend.

Cautiously he advanced into the chamber, following the trail of water towards the hearth, alive and warm from a newly started fire—of which he did not start. Alistair saw movement from the corner of his eye and twisted his body away from the intruder, expecting arrows or a blade. Instead it was his wife.

Vesper Cousland's dark umber hair clung to her strong jaw and the length of her neck. Her cloak had failed entirely to keep her dry and she was now drenched entirely from head to toe. The warden had not even attempted to strip herself of her cold and wet clothing, but was instead preoccupied in gazing into the fire. She didn't notice her husband standing there until he nervously cleared his throat and threw down his shield. "Oh, Ali—" immediately the King's lips were on his Queen's, consuming every gasp and moan that left her mouth. He only parted to catch his breath and gaze into his love's dark eyes.

"Welcome home my love," Alistair pressed his forehead against hers.

Vesper panted, "I missed you too."


End file.
